


In the Shadows of My Heart

by flipflop_diva



Category: Tintenwelt-Trilogie | Inkheart Trilogy - Cornelia Funke
Genre: Angst, Emotional Infidelity, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Missing Scene, Past Infidelity, Post-Inkheart Book 1, Pre-Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/pseuds/flipflop_diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the story of life, not every chapter goes as planned. And sometimes a character comes along that just won't leave your heart. This is what happened to Mo, Dustfinger and Resa.</p><p>Set after Inkheart Book 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Shadows of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tjs_whatnot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/gifts).



> To tjs_whatnot, thank you for your amazing prompts and your enthusiastic letter! I actually claimed your assignment with the intention of writing a story for one of your other requests, but the way you described the characters and your love for this book would just not leave me. So I finally just went out and got the book and absolutely devoured it. So I thank you so much for introducing me to this world and these characters!
> 
> That said, I've actually only read the first book so far (the other two are waiting for me on my iPad!), so this story is written as a post-script to that book. I apologize now if there is anything in here that doesn't fit with the canon of what we learn in future books. I tried my hardest to stay true to the characters, and I really hope you like this!

Sometimes late at night, when the moon hung in the sky and all he could see out the window were the faint lights of the fairies in the trees and all he could hear was the ticking of the clock hanging on their bedroom wall and all he could feel was the softness of his wife’s hair as she lay with her head tucked against his chest, his thoughts turned to _him_. Of where he was and what he was doing and who he was with. Of everything that had happened and everything that could have happened. Of whether he would ever see him again.

Sometimes, in those late night hours when he couldn’t sleep, he felt guilt. Sorrow. Regret.

Meggie had asked him, once, what had happened. She had wanted the story of how it all began, and that night, back when they were still locked in Capricorn’s cowshed, he had told her.

But he hadn’t told her everything.

He had been glad, then, that it was dark in that musty shed. He had been relieved that she hadn’t been looking at his face. He’d prayed she hadn’t heard the slight tremble in his voice or somehow felt the missing pieces of the truth.

He hadn’t lied, though. Not really. He just hadn’t told the whole truth.

Dustfinger _had_ come out of the book, just like Mo told Meggie he had. And Dustfinger _had_ come and gone over the years, just as Mo told Meggie he had. And the last time Mo had seen Dustfinger before this last time _had_ been five years earlier, just as Mo told Meggie it had been.

But what he hadn’t told Meggie could fill volumes of pages with gallons of printer’s ink. 

Yet how could he tell Meggie when he couldn’t even explain it to himself?

He’d thought for the longest time it was guilt. He had brought this man, this strange man who didn’t belong here, into this world that was too much for him, and he didn’t have a way to put him back. 

Mo had never wanted to be responsible for another person. He could fix books, mend their spines, heal their pages, keep them alive, but a person was so much more fragile. The heart and the mind are too easily damaged, too easily hurt. So he had spent the first many years of his life letting only the written word into his heart. 

And then Teresa had come along, and he couldn’t help himself. She understood Mo like no one ever had. She looked into Mo’s eyes and she saw the things he saw, she loved the things he loved. He felt the desire to care for her, in return, to protect her, and thus he did. 

And then Meggie came along, and she, too, needed his care and his protection and his love.

But just three years later, he failed. He failed at protecting Teresa. Instead, he did the opposite. He sent her into a dark cruel world, and in her place he left this man who suddenly was in as much need of protection as the little girl reading picture books on his floor. But Mo looked at this poor out-of-place man and remembered how he had never wanted to be responsible for another person, and his heart weighed heavy every time Dustfinger was near, burdened with the knowledge that Dustfinger’s sorrow was all his fault.

But Dustfinger would not go away and leave Mo in peace. He kept coming back, and Mo kept letting him in, and they would spend days in Mo’s workshops and nights on Mo’s couch, and Mo told himself it was the guilt that made him feel like he couldn’t abandon the man.

It definitely wasn’t the twinkle that sometimes shown in Dustfinger’s eyes when he looked at Mo. It definitely wasn’t the way he moved as he danced with fire, every motion a sort of dance. And it definitely wasn’t the way the Dustfinger talked about his old life as he looked to Mo with an expression of trust and adoration.

He blamed it on lack of sleep, on a guilty conscience, what happened the night he last saw Dustfinger before the night in the rain. Or maybe it was desperation. After all, this man before him had switched places with his wife, and it had been years since he had touched someone else the way he had touched Teresa, had been years since his mouth had met someone else’s. The only touch he’d had was Meggie’s little fingers, but the touch of a child … well, it couldn’t compare.

He’d woken the next morning, flushed and ashamed. Their clothes had lain where they had dropped them. He remembered how pale Dustfinger looked in the morning light, how almost angelic.

“It can not ever happen again,” was the only thing Mo said when Dustfinger stumbled into the kitchen a couple hours later. “It should not have happened this time.”

He had turned away from Dustfinger as soon as he spoke, to take up the dishes from last night’s meal, but he had not missed the man’s crestfallen expression.

“You don’t mean that,” Dustfinger had whispered, his voice barely more than a wisp of air, but Mo had not spared him a glance. 

Dustfinger was gone less than five minutes later, but the feeling Mo thought was guilt never strayed.

Even now, now when Mo once again lay with Teresa, once again could touch her, could be with her, the guilt refused to leave. There was something under the guilt — Mo was aware of that too — but he could not bear to look to closely at it, and thus he did not.

He just tightened his arms around his wife and tried to forget.

•••

Sometimes, late at night, when the only sounds were those of Gwin’s paws scratching against a tree and the slight puffs of air coming from Farid’s mouth, Dustfinger would close his eyes and let his thoughts creep back to both of them. Where they were now, what they were talking about, who they were with. Of everything that had happened between them all and everything that could have happened. Of whether he would ever see either of them again.

Sometimes, in those late night hours when he couldn’t sleep, he felt sadness. Regret. Loneliness.

Farid had asked him about it once, not long after they had left Capricorn’s village for good. He was a perceptive lad. Too perceptive really. He was always watching and analyzing, seeing things not meant for his eyes.

“You love her,” he had said as they’d walked, and it had not been meant as a question. Dustfinger had not bothered with an answer. He had just kept trudging up the hill, his eyes focused straight ahead.

“But you love him too,” Farid had said as they’d approached the crest of that hill a short time later. Below them, the coastal villages had looked like miniature cities, little toys that could have been put together by a child playing with a set of building blocks.

Again, Dustfinger had not bothered with an answer. Instead he had kicked at a mound of dirt that had lain in his path. What a ridiculous notion, he had wanted to shout at the boy. What did he care for a man who had so cruelly taken him from the world he had loved, only to refuse to send him back? What did he care for a man who had spent years running away from him, each time only letting him in when he had no other choice?

Dustfinger had only gone to Mo time and time again because of the book. That book was the only thing he cared about in this world. Definitely not the man who healed books like he was healing injured animals, whose touch was soft and gentle and whose eyes always betrayed their compassion. Definitely not the man whose voice could enthrall millions, who could suck you in and make you feel warm and safe and loved.

Dustfinger blamed it on that voice, on listening to that spellbinding voice, what happened that one night, the last time he had been to see Mo until the time when he had been forced by Capricorn to go. Dustfinger and Mo had been sitting side-by-side, just talking, sharing stories of Dustfinger’s world and Mo’s. It had been so long since Dustfinger had touched someone, had felt someone’s lips, had felt someone’s heartbeat …

He had woken in the morning with an ache in his chest that was unlike anything he had ever known. He remembered hearing the clanging in the kitchen and knowing Mo was perhaps cooking.

He had wandered in there, but Mo of the night before had changed. This Mo was cold, aloof, uncaring. Dustfinger knew then he had just been used, and he was no less alone than he had ever been since arriving in this world.

It worked out, though. Yes, it did. Better than Dustfinger could have imagined in that moment when he slunk out Mo’s door. For he had met Resa soon after, when Darius had read her out of the book, and Dustfinger had smiled at her and offered her comfort, all the while knowing exactly what he was doing and knowing exactly who she was. But he hadn’t felt guilty. Revenge takes many forms — that was one lesson he had learned very well from Capricorn — and that one had felt good.

But now, now out here all alone with Farid, none of it felt good. He had never meant to get quite so close to Resa. He had never meant to hand her his heart the way he had once tried to hand in to Mo. But he had, and now she was gone. He was gone. They were together, and he was alone. He had lost them both, somehow, someway. Two people he maybe never had any right to but had wanted all the same.

“Forget them,” he whispered into the night, but even he could hear his voice tremble. “You are better off without them!”

He tried to force himself to believe that, to focus on the hurt he felt, and the hate. Not the feeling that lay under the hate. No, that did not deserve his attention. Not at all.

So instead, Dustfinger closed his eyes again and listened to Farid breathing and Gwin now eating. It was better this way, he reminded himself, as he wrapped his arms around his own chest and tried to forget.

•••

Sometimes early in the morning, when no one else, not even the fairies and the trolls, was awake and the only light came from the sun slowly beginning its ascent into the sky, Resa would slip out of bed and out on to the porch where she could sit and stare at the world in front of her and let her thoughts turn to _him_. Of where he was and what he was doing and who he was with. Of everything that had happened and everything that could have happened. Of whether she would ever see him again.

Sometimes, in those early morning hours when she couldn’t sleep, she felt sadness. Guilt. Regret.

Nine years was a very long time. Worlds could change in nine years. People could grow unrecognizable. Children could grow up.

She had missed Mo and Meggie more than words could ever express. Every day she spent in that other world, learning from the fairies and traipsing through the woods, she thought of her husband and her child. She imagined Mo in his workshop, lovingly fixing the other things in his life he held most dear. She imagined Meggie growing older, learning to ride a bike and to read on her own. She imagined Meggie going off to school and making friends and coming home and learning how to heal books just like her father did.

Every day Resa had closed her eyes and reminded herself of what they looked like and how they smiled and every day she tried to hear in her mind the sound of their laughter. Nine years is a long time, and memories are skittish little creatures. They change and run away sometimes faster than you can hold on to them.

Resa had known what had happened the moment it happened, even though it had felt impossible. But the world that had come to life with her husband’s voice had been the world that was suddenly thrust in front of her.

And she had known what had happened the day it all changed again, although the world she ended up in the second time was not at all the world she had kept alive in her dreams. It was more like the world of her nightmares. She had been trapped in Capricorn’s village, no longer able to speak, always being watched. She had no way to escape, no way to find out where Mo and Meggie could be, no way to even know if they were still alive (though she had prayed every day they were still alive).

She had never meant to feel anything for Dustfinger except as a friend. She had known exactly who he was the first day he came to her, for she could hear her husband’s words describing the tall pale fire-eater the second she looked upon him. 

He was kind to her, Dustfinger was. Gentle. Caring. He liked to read her stories and hear her tales. He made her feel safe in an unsafe world. He made her feel protected.

It had only happened once, on a night so dark the moon couldn’t even be seen and the only sounds apart from the beating of their hearts was the clickity-clack of a guard’s shoes way below them on the street. They sat on one of the dilapidated roofs of Capricorn’s village, where no one could see them, hand in hand, just taking comfort in the other person.

It had been so long since she had felt another person’s touch, had tasted another person’s lips. She had drawn back as soon as the kiss had ended, had shaken her head sadly at him, and through the dark she had seen Dustfinger nod like he understood.

Sometimes, now, in the early morning light, she still imagined what would have happened if it had gone further. Sometimes she remembered the touch of his hands and wondered what they would have felt like running over her body. Sometimes she licked her lips and thought maybe she could still taste him on them.

But then she thought of Mo and her heart ached at her own betrayal. How could there be room in her heart for two men? That was not okay.

So every time the thoughts would creep in, she forced herself to stand. Then she would slip into her daughter’s room and wrap her arm around the child and try to forget there was any other possibility other than the right here and right now.

Besides, she told herself, it was better this way.

•••

Sometimes, in the late afternoon light, when shadows were beginning to creep across the lawn and the fairies were dancing in the sky, Meggie would look over at her parents and see the truth written like printer’s ink across their faces.

They thought she didn’t know, and they worked hard to keep it that way. They held each other’s hands and smiled at each other, and sometimes when they thought she was too occupied with a book, they would kiss each other’s lips and she would see Mo whisper something into her mother’s ear and her mother would smile and look like she had never been happier.

It was all more than Meggie could ever have dreamed about, and it made her happy in ways she hadn’t known were possible.

But she wasn’t stupid and she wasn’t blind. She saw the way Mo would sometimes stop and look out a window, like his thoughts were with someone else. She saw the way her mother would look off toward the south, like maybe she could see through the trees and the villages to find the person she was thinking of.

Meggie had seen Dustfinger’s eyes down in the dark crypt. She saw the way he looked at her mother, and she knew what it meant. It meant the same thing it meant when she sometimes caught him looking over at Mo.

Meggie sometimes wondered where Dustfinger was. Was he with Farid? Were they still in the south? Was he still trying to get home? Would he show up again some day? What would happen if he did?

Meggie was not sure if it would be better or if it would be worse. She was twelve years old, almost thirteen now, old enough to understand things her parents didn’t want her to understand, but still young enough that she knew there was much about grownups she couldn’t yet quite explain. And there was no one to explain it to her. She couldn’t ask Elinor or Darius, for they would surely tell her parents, and the fairies and the trolls and the little glass men were no help at all. 

So instead Meggie watched her parents and wished she could help. Maybe someday she could write words on a page and let their truth come out.

After all, her life had changed the day the fire-eater had appeared on their lawn. Maybe he was always meant to be more than a passing character in their story. Maybe someday he would appear again. And maybe then things would really be alright.


End file.
